


Three Thousand Miles

by CherryIce



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-24
Updated: 2004-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryIce/pseuds/CherryIce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser's getting there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Thousand Miles

**Author's Note:**

> For ds_flashfic's "Ice" challenge. This was my first kick at the DS can.

Chicago is loud. Car horns and street vendors, sirens on the streets and music spilling from open windows. Click-click-click of Dief's nails on pavement and click-clack-click of computer keys. Prophets on the street corners and everyone talks and talks without saying a word.

"... so the guy drops him, right," Ray is saying. His fingers go tap-tap-tap on the steering wheel, precise eighth and sixteenth notes like he's counting out a rhythm in his head, like his hands wish he was dancing. All Fraser can think of is the tapping of snow on glass, the whistle of his grandmother's tea kettle as he sat and peered between the curtains. His breath fogged the panes.

"-- in front of me, no less. Knew I was his, well, buddy, and he just --" some guy in a Sunfire cuts them off in traffic, and Fraser really doesn't need to speak Polish to know what Ray just shouted. "Anyway," Ray says. Takes a good long look at Fraser (his eyes should be on the road, and when someone else cuts him off, he leans on the horn) and flips through the radio stations. "Not important."

"No, continue," Fraser says, noting the sudden appearance of the line between Ray's brows.

"Like I said," Ray says. Fraser doesn't mention that this is his second time through the presets. The GTO hums. "I run at the mouth. You just gotta smack me one when I get outta hand. You can't just sit around and wait for me to stop talking, buddy. Isn't going to happen."

Once, in the wondrous wilds of Michigan, they hit a deer. Ray was talking about Steve McQueen and the Rolling Stones and the only light in the car was reflected back off the highway and coming off the instrument panel. They were on their way back from a hearing (Ray being Vecchio, the perpetrator had looked thoroughly confused) and driving a rental, and Ray was flicking ash from his cigarette out the open window.

'I think,' Fraser had said -- and Ray turned to look at him, and the deer was in the headlights, frozen. There was a moment where all Fraser could see was big black eyes, then Ray was swearing and the car was spinning and his seat belt must have been cutting into his shoulder. When it was over and done, they were standing outside the car looking at the smashed hood and Ray said 'You think...'

All Fraser could think was that his shoulder hurt.

And that he was like that deer in the headlights, wide-eyed and frozen with the noise and bright lights and Ray bearing down on him. But that's not a thought for sharing.

 

And Ray's going on about how he goes on, fingers dancing across the dash in some syncopated rhythm Fraser could never capture. Ray says: "you talk, too, you know. Don't know why I'm the only one in the partnership with a reputation for going on. You talk just as much as me, just about Eskimos and whasis. Polar bears. The joys and wonders of pemican. Just that people fall asleep before the end so's they don't know how long you go on."

In the back seat, Deif barks.

"See? Even the wolf agrees with me."

Chicago is so *loud.* It's brash and cacophonous and everyone insists on hanging wind chimes from their back porches and telling you what it is that's wrong with you.

"You know what your problem is, Frase?"

Enlighten me. Please, Fraser doesn't say, and paints over everything with tundra. Like the offices are hillocks and the schools are caribou herds and they're speeding along the edge of a cliff. Ray doesn't realize how close they to slipping over the edge and burning up on the ice below.

It's as if before he left Canada -- scratch, reverse. Sometimes, it feels as if he never left Canada. As if someone took a photograph of him and sent it by freight, and it runs around in Fraser's hat and boots; rescues little old ladies and speaks seven languages and walks Diefenbaker in parks that are never quite large enough. He can still feel the north wind.

The silence creeps in, and Dief noses his shoulder. They're parked outside the Consulate, and Ray's frowning. "You okay there, buddy?" he asks. "You're a million miles away."

When we hit the deer, I was watching your mouth, Fraser doesn't say. I didn't see it because I was watching your mouth.

It's closer to three thousand, actually, he wants to say. From my photograph to here, it's more like three thousand miles and only about five hundred are covered in ice and snow.

"Look, Frase, you know that if there's anything..."

I'm perfectly fine, is what he should say. It's what he would have said four years ago, back when the snapshot was taken, and he would have thought it was true.

"I'm getting better," he is what he says, and touches Ray's hand.


End file.
